


#DickGate2016

by redcigar



Series: All's fair in [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] [3]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (the cold war is his virginity), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Humor, M/M, Multi, Possessive Bucky Barnes, Press and Tabloids, courting, how steve rogers lost the cold war, the winter soldier wooes steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:33:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcigar/pseuds/redcigar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU wherein Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes never met, but the Winter Soldier takes an interest in Captain America anyway, and has an odd way of showing it.</p><p>--</p><p>Captain America very obviously does not look at the blown up image of the unfortunate salaryman losing any possibility of children behind him. Twitter has heralded it #DickGate2016. One of the reporters in the crowd is sporting a shirt with the hashtag emblazoned on it in glitter glue. </p><p>What a time to be alive, Amy thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	#DickGate2016

There is always a sense of nervous awe and faint incredulity whenever the Avengers hold a press conference for something other than Saving the World.

 

Unlike Stark, who has to hold a conference every other month for one thing or another, the press don’t get much face-to-face time with the other Avengers. Thor is usually AWOL, Hawkeye suspiciously absent and Black Widow too intimidating to approach. No-one bothers Banner. Falcon, at least, is all gentlemanly grace, and willingly stops for selfies and high fives, but remains just as tight-lipped as his teammates. Iron Man talks _too_ much. And the Captain, well –

 

Amy flashes her press badge at the door and follows the sidling crowd into the presentation room, where people are settling into purposefully uncomfortable fold-out chairs in front of the long raised podium. It’s a bright, long room, and the Avengers are a shock of colour at the end of it, all bold blacks, blues, and reds, and they’re not even in uniform. Everyone is showing various degrees of amusement or boredom, given the reason for the conference. Widow and Hawkeye are huddled at the end of the table rapidly tapping away at their phones. Thor appears to have recognised one of the reporters from the front room and is bellowing away at him, shaking his hand so hard Amy wonders if it is going to fall off.

 

“—the time with the Half-Elf!” He is yelling, gesturing to the man, who is turning rapidly red. Falcon is nodding complacently, but also looks ready to jump in and perform emergency CPR at any moment, which seems to be his usual state in these situations.

 

Iron Man, the little shit, is handing out cake at the side of the room. It’s shaped like the American flag.

 

And that’s the real reason they’re all here, gathered today. Captain America himself, in a slim-fitting blue button-up that does him _wonders_ , is standing by the podium looking as though the assembled reporters were a firing squad, and he’s the last damn rebel to go down in the flames of glory.

 

Or, whatever, Amy isn’t projecting.

 

That shirt is _really_ tight.

 

Someone clears their throat quietly. It might have been Widow, but Amy isn’t sure. Regardless, the general murmuring (and in Thor’s case, bellowing) dies down pretty quickly, and someone wheels out a projector, photos at the ready.

 

“I’m sure you’re all wondering why we’ve brought you here, today,” Stark announces seriously.

 

“Tony, _shut up_ ,” Captain Goddamn America hisses, and steps up to the podium, “they know why they’re here.”

 

 _We sure do_ , Amy thinks, flipping open her writing pad and setting her phone to record.

 

The projector flicks to the first image.

 

And there, in beautiful technicolour, is a photo of the Winter Soldier punching an unfortunate businessman in the dick.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Rewind.

 

“Wow, Hydra staging a full-blown offensive assault on the CBD,” Natasha remarks drolly at the front of the jet, where she’s leaning over the driver’s seat, “not their most graceful effort.”

 

“If you hold on really tight I can write DESPERATE in the sky,” Clint offers.

 

“Absolutely do not do that,” Bruce calls from the back, head between his knees.

 

The funny thing is, Natasha isn’t wrong. Steve tries not to get his hopes up too much, but such a public, disorganised mess of a move is – civilians in danger or no – a good sign for them. Cut off one head and another grows back, maybe. But they’ve been charring head stumps wherever they go, and it looks like the burns are starting to show. Bruce isn’t even with them to hulk out, just to be on hand in case the Hydra goons break out something unexpected and also to keep James company while they wait for the other Avengers to finish Cleaning House. Or in Thor’s case – violently Rearranging and Redecorating House.

 

Speaking of.

 

Steve finishes suiting up and turns to smile at his shadow, slouched behind the bulkhead in a significant Sulk, as much as bulging muscles, leather and Kevlar can sulk.

 

“Oh, come on,” he prods, “this time isn’t even bad. No aliens, robots, or weapons of mass destruction anywhere in sight.”

 

The Sulk continues.

 

“Yeah, come on, Barnes,” Tony offers from the side, Iron Man helmet off and phone clicking away between his giant metal gauntlets, “punching Nazis in the face is like a stroll in the park for Steve. If the park was in war-torn Germany. And full of Nazis.”

 

“I can punch people,” James protests hotly, words still curling rough around unfamiliar English, “I’m pretty good at it.”

 

“The _best_ ,” Natasha affirms, in a rare show of comradery.

 

“From experience I can certainly say you hold claim to a mighty swing,” Thor agrees.

 

“You can have me under the scope,” Steve says gently, even as the jet prepares to land and James curls to his feet, crowding into Steve’s space. He ignores Steve’s automatic flush, looming hot and heavy against him as if his weight alone will keep Steve away from the landing pad. “I won’t go anywhere you can’t see me.”

 

“With your sniper rifle,” Tony agrees genially, “your deadly, deadly sniper rifle.”

 

James smiles at him, makes sure to show his teeth.

 

“Preparing for landing!” Clint announces from the front. “Everyone hold your butts!”

 

Thor reflexively checks behind him.

 

“No, don’t--” Sam starts, but it’s too late. The jet is hissing, pulling down to land. And Steve’s hands are on the guard rail, keeping him standing.

 

James hands are – James hands are not on the guard rail.

 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “Yeah, okay.”

 

“Be careful, _kotyonok_ ,” James growls against his mouth.

 

“My eyes,” Banner says sadly.

 

“Alright ladies and gents, and _gents_ ,” Tony adds, with a significant look at James’ bounty, “Let’s go kill some crazies.”

 

The jet lands with a smooth thump, and Natasha tousles Clint’s hair. As the landing pad slides down, they’re given a beautiful view of the city, glittering metal bars and glass windows, and the occasional decorative explosion as the collective pack of Hydra goons scatter through streets and buildings like a swarm of ants, gunfire pattering after them. There is a lot of screaming. A distant shudder.

 

“I brought Go Fish,” Steve hears Banner say to James as they alight on top of the nearest office building.

 

There is a brief silence.

 

“Let’s not do that, then,” Banner adds a moment later, and if Steve can’t help the small grin that lights up his face, the redness to his cheeks, well, all of the Avengers are a bit too preoccupied to notice.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

There is a lot of talking all at once. Amy tries to get her question out there, but after the third or fourth time she shouts: “Okay, but is the guy _alive_?” She gives up and waits for the usual chaos to die down, until some lucky bastard is picked near the front and almost falls over himself to ask:

 

“Since _when_ is the Winter Soldier an Avenger?”

 

“Probationary Avenger,” Captain America responds almost immediately, “I should think the leaked SHIELD records were enough to explain his… situation, so I won’t go into details.”

 

“That’s a hell of a footnote,” someone behind Amy mutters, and she silently agrees.

 

“But Ja – uh, the Soldier has shown remarkable progress and recovery in the past few months.” Rogers adds firmly.

 

There is a brief, but quelling silence.

 

Captain America very obviously does not look at the blown up image of the unfortunate salaryman losing any possibility of children behind him. Twitter has heralded it #DickGate2016. One of the reporters in the crowd is sporting a shirt with the hashtag emblazoned on it in glitter glue.

 

What a time to be alive, Amy thinks.

 

“And, uh,” Rogers says “the gentleman in question is doing fine.”

 

Widow clears her throat.

 

“I mean,” and oh my god, Captain America is blushing, Amy’s life is made, “he’s in hospital, but he’s doing okay!”

 

Widow clears her throat, louder. It’s like razorblades in there.

 

“We sent him some very nice flowers,” Rogers says, desperately.

 

Tony takes the moment to lean into his mic and add: “I chose them,” proudly, like this was some sort of achievement.

 

“You guys are such _assholes_ ,” Wilson groans into his hands.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“He _is_ doing pretty well,” Natasha admits to Steve from her perch on a Hydra goons shoulders, calmly choking him out with her thighs, “I mean, he still calls you _kotyonok_ , but I’m pretty sure he’s doing that exclusively to see you blush like – _yeah_ , like that,” she grins, and Steve bashfully smacks his shield into another goon’s head.

 

“Probably,” he concedes, “but I mean, he calls me other stuff too, in English, so I think that’s good right? That’s progress?”

 

The Hydra goon collapses with a final wheeze. Natasha winces and unpicks her wedgie.

 

“What?” She scowls at Steve’s stare, “this is _lycra_ , Rogers.”

 

“Also,” she adds after they’ve cleared out the rest of the alleyway where they’d cornered a small handle of soldiers, “I’m going to need more information. What _other stuff_ does he call you? Clint, record this,” she adds into her mic, and then, “that was unrelated to the pet name thing.”

 

“Uh huh,” Steve drawls, and then, “duck, you smug--”

 

After they step out of the alleyway and Steve’s shield ricochets off a few craniums, Sam sees fit to pipe in over the com as he swoops overhead.

 

“Not confirming or denying, Widow, but the words ‘sweetcheeks’ and ‘babydoll’ may have been uttered in my presence.”

 

He swoops away, Steve throws a nearby rock at him.

 

“ _Babydoll_ ,” Natasha whistles, cheeks dimpling, “he sure has _your_ number, Steve.”

 

“Yeah, and the numbers _1945_ ,” Tony buzzes in, “also, check it, Hydra goons brought back up. Some kind of robot war tank thing. I don’t know, it has spikes, what do you want from me?”

 

Aforementioned robot-war-tank-thing suddenly trundles out onto the highway crossing in front of them. It is hissing oil and steam and flanked by Hydra goons in black leather.

 

“Oh thank God,” Steve sighs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“I think what needs to be addressed here,” speaks one of the reporters, a pure, lonely voice of reason, “is how quickly the Winter Soldier went from fighting on the side of justice to attacking innocent civilians.”

 

“That,” Captain Rogers starts, and then winces, reddening, “that’s a very fair question to ask. Although, I might add, it was civilian _singular_. Just that one, uh, gentleman.”

 

He then pauses for a very long time. So long that Hawkeye even lowers his phone to peer over the top, eyebrows raised.

 

“And the reason for that is, well, uh,” Rogers laughs, huffs, and then firms up all at once, shoulders back, head forward, jaw set stubborn.

 

“Whoop, here it is,” Stark drawls.

 

Amy double checks her phone is recording.

 

“Well, see. I would first of all like to say that the Winter Soldier isn’t his name, his name is James Buchanan Barnes, and he was a respected sergeant of the US forces during World War Two,” Steve announces, pink lips drawn together, brow furrowed. “You should all know that, from the SHIELD leak, but I think it’s something that needs repeating, and often, because it’s true. He’s not the Soldier, he’s just James. Just another kid from Brooklyn. Just like me. And he’s, uh, he’s really a great guy, he is, he’s such a great guy, you know, he’s--”

 

“He’s in the roof.” Black Widow announces without aplomb.

 

“Yes,” Captain America sighs happily, and then, “wait, what, _JAMES_ \--”

 

Which is when a ceiling tile shifts, something crashes through the drywall, and the Winter Soldier lands heavily in Amy’s lap.

 

 

* * *

 

 

James tunes in just as Steve splits off from Natasha to help evacuate the surrounding office buildings while Tony, Thor and Sam take on the tank. (“There’s going to be so many explosions,” Tony sighs happily, “take cover,” and then Sam shouted, “ _do not touch yourself,”_ so Steve had taken the advice and turned tail). Steve is taking the steps four at a time while unbuckling his cowl, when his com buzzes and an unhappy voice mutters: “ _Steve_.”

 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve huffs, because they’re mostly private, what with the other Avengers being occupied with not dying, and he knows James doesn’t want his new nickname shared around just yet, “You and Banner doing okay?”

 

“He made me listen to whale songs,” James says, and Steve can _hear_ the scowl. “I ditched him.”

 

“You--”

 

“Where are you?”

 

Steve does a quick assessment, rattles off some coordinates. He reaches the next landing and shoulders open a door blocked by rubble to reveal some cowering office workers, who promptly take the opening to flee. One floor down, six to go.

 

“I don’t have eyes there,” James grumps.

 

“Sorry Buck, talk to Tony about that, maybe you can get X-Ray vision.” He stops on the stairwell for a moment to breathe, and reconsider. “Do _not_ get X-Ray vision.”

 

“I wasn’t gonna,” James protests, but there was hesitation there, for a second, “what floor?”

 

“I’m _fine_. Evacuating civvies. Nat’s in the South building doing the same. Wings and Hammer on the ground. Everyone’s safe and accounted for, Buck, honestly.”

 

Which is when a bullet splits through the window to Steve’s left and straight into the head of a Hydra goon, who had been lurking around the corner of the next landing in a neat crouch.

 

“Uh huh,” James says, “I’m coming in.”

 

“Bucky, don’t--!” Steve starts, but he knows it’s too late. The com is going fuzzy, and there are panicked shouts coming from upstairs where undoubtedly more Hydra goons are making are mess. So Steve just puts his shoulders up and continues climbing, pushing his worry for James safely into the soft, secret part of his heart just for him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“ _Don’t kill me_!” Amy shrieks, and then promptly hates herself. The Winter Soldier unfolds himself from her lap with surprising grace, considering his less-than-graceful entrance, and brushes plaster off himself with casual nonchalance.

 

“Haha!” Hawkeye shouts, “ _Nice_.”

 

Everyone ignores him. Which seems to be going around, because the Winter Soldier stalks through the rows of chairs with single-minded intent, ignoring the various squeaks and gasps as reporters snatch their bags and legs out of his warpath, and stomps up the steps to the podium to where, to where –

 

Huh.

 

To where Captain Goddamn America (Amy will, one day, stop calling him that) is waiting. He has his arms folded over his impressive chest, porcelain face all scrunched up like he’s aiming for disappointment or annoyance and can’t quite reach either. There’s something pulling at the corner of his pink mouth that might be a reluctant smile. His cheeks are _red_.

 

“Buck,” he sighs, but of course the mic is still on, so it echoes around the room.

 

Next to Amy, a fellow reporter’s pencil snaps against their writing pad with anxious fervour. Amy wants to take a photo with her phone but she’s afraid if she moves too quickly she’ll either a) die, or b) break out of this fever dream she’s clearly slipped into.

 

“Hey, Barnes,” Stark says, bulldozing through the awkward social situation with all the tact of a drunk rhinoceros, “did you see the cake?”

 

“Steve,” the Winter Soldier grumps, and then sort of –

 

Leans.

 

Into.

 

Him?

 

And just keeps on leaning, and then a glittering – metal, oh god, his arm is really metal – just sort of snakes around Captain Roger’s waist, and he puts his broad back to their audience and just sort of, hugs, up against the greatest national icon America has ever seen.

 

“You sent him _flowers_?” the Winter Soldier’s voice growls throughout the conference room.

 

“ _Really_ nice ones,” Stark says.

 

“Such. _Assholes_.” Falcon sighs, and Thor pats his shoulder gently.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When James arrives at the office building a negligible amount of time later, there are explosions coming from the street outside and Steve is in a compromising position.

 

The Hydra goons? No problem. The panicked civilians? A bit more of a problem. There are several wounded, mostly from shrapnel and general chaos than from any direct attacks, but bad enough that Steve has already messaged Banner to prepare the local hospitals for an influx. A few have broken or bleeding legs, and one elderly woman has fainted from the smoke, so Steve does two trips getting the civvies to the ground floor where Natasha is herding and organising groups with all the force and grace of a school teacher. Which is to say: there is a lot of shouting, and at least one grown man is crying.

 

Speaking of grown men.

 

“Oh, wow,” the guy huffs, as Steve eases him up onto a table-top so he can get a better look at the wound in his thigh, “Captain America. Yep. There you are. Geeze. I mean, I know DC gets attacked by like, elves, every other week. But it’s weird to finally see you in the flesh.”  


“Are you having a panic attack?” Steve asks, pressing his gloves to where the man’s suit leg is stained red and torn.

 

“N- _No_ ,” the man says, “I don’t? Think so? Wow, you are actually so much bigger in real life. I mean, they say the camera puts on ten pounds, but I think cameras take them off _you_ , because geeze--”

 

“Buddy, please, you’re killing me here,” a nearby woman groans from the ground. Some of the civvies propped up against the far wall have their cameras out. Great.

 

“Sir, you’re going to need to stay calm,” Steve says, putting on his Business Face, and applying pressure to the wound, “once we’ve sorted out the situation out front you’re going to get straight to a hospital and have this cleaned up, okay?”

 

“ _Massive_ ,” Unfortunate Businessman sighs, and then he –

 

Looks down at where Steve’s upper-armour curves around his pecs and just. Sort of. Stares.

 

“ _Woah, dude_!” The girl shrieks. “No!”

 

Something slams behind them just as Steve jerks back. That something turns out to be the Winter Soldier parasailing through the office window and landing with a crunch on broken glass to a chorus of surprised shouts. The Winter Soldier, who then proceeds to grab Steve by his belt and haul him back with one hand, and with the other, make a solid fist.

 

“Oh _shit_ ,” the guy yelps, recoiling.

 

“ _Sooksin_ ,” James snarls.  

 

 _Click_ , goes someone’s camera shutter.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“What do you _mean_ , _in a relationship_ ,” a reporter wails amongst the cacophony of shouting as Clint firmly slams the conference door shut behind them, letting security usher the Avengers out the building towards their private cars.

 

“That went well, I thought!” Tony says, sliding his shades on. “The cake, I thought, was a nice touch.”

 

“Congrats on the coming out, I guess?” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. Steve shrugs bashfully.

 

“Well, it’s not like it was going to be normal,” he admits ruefully, “To be honest I’m just glad there were no explosions.”

 

“Except for the roof.” Natasha reminds him, and shoots James a disappointed look.

 

“Cheap materials,” James mutters defensively.

 

“Uh huh, well, I guess I should say congratulations too, Steve, _Bucky_ ,” She adds, winking before following Clint into his car. James is already herding Steve towards their limo, as Tony is already nattering away on his phone while Thor, Sam, and Bruce are discussing conciliatory burritos as methods of healing mental scarring.

 

James handles Steve into the car like he’s some priceless dame at a red carpet event, and Steve blushes as much as he glares.

 

“Really though,” he says, “the _roof_?”

 

“Good acoustics. And you said I couldn’t come in.”

 

“I said you _shouldn’t_ come in,” Steve sighs, exasperated. “Not the same thing. If you wanted to be there for it that bad you should have said.”

 

James shrugs with one shoulder, and bundles Steve in under the other. Steve won’t admit it, but being smaller than someone else for once makes the heat rise through his body embarrassingly fast. Add to that James’ close proximity, the weight of his muscled thigh, pressed to Steve’s dress slacks through worn leather and wool that smells of cigarette smoke and the body wash they share.

 

“Flowers?” James mutters into his hair.

 

“Tony picked them,” Steve retorts instantly, “and Pepper insisted.”

 

James snorts, and rubs his nose back and forth across Steve’s fringe.

 

“That guy was a dick.”

 

“Yeah, well, so are we, sort of.” Steve laughs, and something warm and painfully good blooms in his chest when James laughs too, albeit haltingly and rough from lack of practice.

 

“Yeah,” James agrees, “Yeah, we really are. _Kotyonok_.”

 

He bites Steve’s protest out of his mouth, huddles them away from view as the car speeds them back to Avengers tower. Steve has the forethought to slap his hand around on the button board for the window tint, and the car sinks to darkness as it hums across the asphalt, while James sinks to his knees.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You’re going to take the flowers, aren’t you,” Steve realises with a jolt, after they’ve taken an acrobatic turn in the elevator up to their flat and he’s holding a pretty impressive position over the floating island in the kitchen. James’ grip in his hair turns a little mean, and he snarls something in Russian. He lost his capacity for English about twenty minutes ago somewhere with his trousers, and given how busy he is mashing Steve’s face gently but firmly into the countertop – he’s not going to find it again any time soon.

 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “Yeah, okay.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Burritos were a fine choice,” Thor decides, spread out beside the park bench with his cape bunched up as a pillow.

 

Sam throws some bread to the ducks.

**Author's Note:**

> friend: needs more sex and/or giant robots  
> me: ffs
> 
>  
> 
> (if i forgot any significant characters in this i'm sorry there's juST SO MANY OF THEM)
> 
> i am still not funny


End file.
